Drabble Series 6: Lost
by snugsbunnyfluff
Summary: You'd lost everything! Part of the Drabble Series ThorinxReader PWP


**Warning** : There is an attempted sexual assault in this Drabble. It is not graphic, but could be considered triggering. Though the attacker does get a severe punishment Thorin style!

 **Disclaimer** : I make no apologies for my disuse of all characters created by Tolkien and Jackson. However, I also do not own any of them. Any mistakes are mine.

 **Lost**

* * *

You'd been home for eight months, you world desolate, leeched of colour and happiness. You noticed nothing except the sun coming up and the sun going down and chalked it up to just another day.

You left London, with the generous help of the local church that had helped your mother in her final months.

An elderly woman had a slightly younger sister who needed a live-in home help out in the countryside, you accepted the offer immediately.

It should have been perfect, you got paid, got two days off a week, didn't really do much and got to drive a bad ass four-wheeler.

Margaret, your employer, tried to tease conversation out of you, but you remained polite and distant. You refused to get close to anyone, never again.

It should have been perfect.

Perfection, though, would have been living in middle earth with your belly full of an active child waiting to be born, and it was that same dream night after night that kept you going. Made you get up in the morning, just so you would be nearer to going back to bed and dreaming again.

Your eyes opened, and the dream of rough touches, warm smiles and a deep laugh flitted away to the aether of your mind.

It didn't matter if you forgot that exact dream. You had your memories. They never went away, they always came to you in high definition. Seeing yourself, loving Thorin was heartbreaking and life-giving. You knew it was real, that it had happened, but it hurt that there were so few memories. You wished you'd had more time with him as lovers. Wished that you'd never wasted a moment.

In those rare moments when you did smile now, it was usually because of something you remembered Thorin saying, usually to his nephews. That would bring the antics of the brothers back to your mind, and the rest of the company. Bilbo and Gandalf as well.

Pulling back the blankets you could feel the coldness of the morning leech away your sleepy warmth. Still, you got out of bed and headed for the shower and its pathetic trickle of water.

It was the drawback to living in the country, there was no water pressure here. You couldn't wake yourself under a hot, powerful stream. There was also the fact that jetting water from shower heads could be used for other pleasurable diversions.

But you were denied that stimulation, and your fingers had proven to be just as lacklustre. It's what made your dreams and memories so precious. Though it also made you feel shallow. Thorin was more than the dwarf who got you off, but it was the biggest part that you missed. Him touching you, cuddling you, sleeping with you locked in his arms.

You'd lost so much, and now was not the time to be dwelling on it.

After your shower, you dressed and headed downstairs. Margaret had stopped offering you breakfast, and now just left a list of chores for you. Today was shopping day.

You grabbed the shopping list, the keys to the Range Rover and the debit card.

Passing the closed door of the day room, you heard voices, figured it was her grandson, John.

Sketching a snarl at the thought of the lecherous bugger visiting you marched to the garage.

John was a nasty, putrid little man. He only appeared when he needed something, usually money. You knew when he was there as his little piggy eyes always followed you around. You hated it, but over the eight months, you'd seen him about a handful of times.

Into town you drove, parking outside the only supermarket, it being a little bigger than the off-licence down the road, and that shop was about the size of a postage stamp.

Grabbing one of the two trolley's they had, and naturally, it had to be the one with the wonky wheel you trundled noisily into the shop.

Hitting the fruit and veg first, then the bakery aisle, fresh meat, tinned goods and finally the drinks aisle.

You wondered at the extra items. It was Margaret that had written them down. Bottles of wine, some Southern Comfort, lemonade, cola. It sounded like your employer was going to have a party.

If you would only be sociable for more than ten minutes, a day you'd probably know all about it. Not that you were planning on attending.

Shrugging it off, you grabbed everything on the list and headed to the till.

Driving back you saw John's black Mercedes and two other cars. One was a Jag, the other an Audi soft top. None of them was the sort of power vehicles like the Range Rover, so whoever they were, they'd driven up from some city.

You should ask Margaret what food she wanted preparing. Struggling into the kitchen, you found another list. It seemed Margaret had preempted your question a list of what needed cooking was waiting for you, along with the time it needed to be served.

You got to work immediately, losing yourself to the day. It was twilight when you laid the spread of food on the long dining room table that had never been used since you'd arrived.

You'd done your best to make sure it looked extravagant, and today, you felt proud. Not that you would dwell on it. If you did, you might make that terrible mistake of being happy with your life, and then you'd likely feel alive. And that wouldn't do.

* * *

It was close to eleven when the serving bell rang. You didn't even know it still worked! Margaret had never been one to call you this way.

Today, though, was an exception, and you slouched off down the stairs to see what was going on.

There were four people with Margaret chatting away in the dining room. Her grandson was not one of them thankfully.

Your name was called warmly, and you stepped up to the aged hostess with a fake smile. You were introduced to people not much younger than Margaret. Two couples who had been lifelong friends of Margaret and her deceased husband.

They needed more wine, and none of them was at an age where they could navigate those narrow stairs down into the cellar. Nodding, you moved off, half listening to them commenting about peculiar fireworks earlier in the evening.

Opening the creaky door, you flicked the switch and waited for the long fluorescent tube to flare on. Its deep whirring announced the light that flicked on, off, then back on again.

Carefully, you took each step one at a time, the carved stone was barely long enough for your dainty feet, and each stair led to a sharp drop and lengthy step down to the next one.

It was as your foot touched the floor that you were grabbed and swung around hard, your cheek colliding with rough wall scraping away a layer of skin.

You didn't know who it was, but they stunk of whisky. Their drunkenness aided you in pushing back, half-turning and punching them.

You flew up the stone steps, out into the kitchen and with terror as your companion lost all sense of direction as you headed down the passage to the utility room and through the back door.

Into the night you ran. Memories of another time assailed you and you knew there would be no dwarf king to rescue this time. No, he was long dead.

You sprinted through the dark, feet crunching over frozen grass that led you to the middle of nowhere, or at least that's what it looked like when you couldn't see five feet in front of you.

You felt like you were reenacting a scene from the Blair Witch Project. Silence descended only broken by your heavy, misty breaths.

Great, perfect!

You were in the dark, you didn't know where the house was. You turned in a circle, and no light could be seen.

Slumping your shoulders, you looked about trying to figure out from which direction you came from.

A light flitted over the grass in front of you. You peered closer it looked like a beam from a torch, but more like the light itself was coming up fast…

The impact knocked you off your feet, face mushing into the frozen ground, the grass now like shards of thin glass.

The air whooshed from your lungs, and the solid punch to the back of your head had you dazed and fighting internally to stay awake.

Your shirt was yanked up, your arms caught in the buttoned sleeves and it was twisted at the back of your neck, fumbled with, then released.

You were tied in your own shirt, your hands fisted against your chin, elbows digging into the ground to keep your balance.

Another smashing punch to the back of your head pushed the rest of the fight out of you. Your skirt was yanked up, your knickers wrenched down, scraping at your cold thighs. You were exposed to the elements and your attacker.

The jangle of a metal belt, the press of cold skin against yours, fingers fumbling against your dry slit.

You couldn't cry out, your open mouth was pressed into the frozen mud, inhaling the dust.

You forced yourself to mentally focus on something else.

"You uppity little bitch." John!

Tears leaked out at the realisation of who it was, and what he was about to do to you.

You disassociated yourself from your body, well at least you thought that's what you did. All you could hear was a loud yell, then skin slapping together. Your body must have been too frozen to move, you didn't even feel him inside you.

You couldn't comprehend the broken body that landed beside you, that nasty round face with bleeding mouth and missing teeth, a squashed nose, blood gushing out of it.

You barely recognised Margaret's grandson.

You were pulled on to your feet, strong arms holding you, you looked up at a man. He was talking, you looked at his mouth, framed by that beard.

You didn't react when the long dagger appeared and cut your bindings, didn't register as a long coat, filled with his body warmth wrapped around you.

When those blue eyes stared into yours and asked you a question. You could do nothing but stare.

A shake of your body starting at your shoulders where he held you brought sound back to your life.

"Which hand?"

Your eyes widened, you tried to talk, to tell him you didn't understand.

"Which hand touched you?" he snapped, giving you another little shake.

You shrugged, you honestly didn't know.

"Which hand?" was growled again, this time to the pathetic body forced to stand by two others. "Which hand did you touch her with?"

You watched John glance at the dagger, then foolishly hide his right hand behind his back.

He was dragged forward, thrown to his knees, the dagger sequestered away, and a long curved, shiny sword withdrawn.

You may not have been able to comprehend much, but the sight of that sword, cutting through flesh and bone warped you back to reality.

Hyperventilating you backed away. The man came forward, grabbed you, buried your head in his shoulder, and whispered you were going home.

You looked up, taking a step back, staring at the long dark hair, the familiar braids ending in silver beads. The little ear cuff poking through strands of hair. His face, his beautiful and very alive face.

Your hand shot out and slapped him. You looked at your palm, you could feel the sting of your skin meeting his flesh, could see the red splotch appear on your palm.

You looked into his eyes. "You're real!"

The offended look and angry eyes drained away. "I'm here," he coaxed, "I came for you."

He looked unsure, you shook your head and pounced on him. Arms around his neck in a chokehold as you screamed into his chest.

An arm around your back and then he bent and swept your legs out from under you. You thought it could be Fíli and Kíli with him as he took off running flanked by others.

"There he is."

You didn't know who shouted or what was going on. Frankly, you couldn't give a damn. You were in his arms, and you never wanted to leave them.

"This will be difficult."

It was the only warning you received. Arms tightened around you as you found yourself being squeezed through a wall that felt like a gazillion razor blades slicing at your skin.

You popped out the other side, with a lip-smacking sound, your body riddled with pain.

Your back was on the floor, no a blanket, there was a blanket. His coat was laying beside you, and you wanted to reach for it. His body landed on top of yours, and you looked up at him.

Concern was there on his face, his large hands were rubbing at your skin. There wasn't one sexual thing about what he was doing. This was him warming you. Focus came back and with it the sensation of deep cold drilling into your bones, but it was slowly chased away by him.

You shook your head, slumped back and looked at stars you had missed for eight awful, life-leaching months.

When you were all toasty, wrapped in blankets and snuggled against the hard body of your lover, you should have fallen right to sleep.

You fought it, though, ever hour, minute, second, nanosecond, you refused to let your eyes shut.

Thorin slept like a baby, a smile on his lips nestled in that beard. It was a bit longer, not much, and perhaps a little less cared for. Even on the quest, beard maintenance was a schedule you could set your watch by. Every one of the dwarves had a time when they would sit down, draw a sharp blade and a little mirror and carefully prune their beards.

It had been funny at first, seeing their serious faces, asking each other if their beards looked good, like a load of girls at a pyjama party after painting their nails.

One night, you'd had a discussion about beards, had gathered they were akin to the peacock's tails. They were elegant and adorned for courting, well-tended and clean for marriage.

It was Thorin's beard that was the most curious until you learnt he kept it short in honour of those who died at Erebor.

To see it untended worried you. How long had he searched for you? How had he found you? Questions that needed answering, but not right now.

Now, you knew that he slept peacefully. Likely, this was his first good night's sleep in a while.

The sky began to lighten, and you watched the black give way to blue, changing slowly to orange slashed with lilac. The sky was always so beautiful and untainted here.

The others began to stir, and you waited for Thorin to wake. He was always the early riser, but this morning despite the quiet bustle, he didn't stir. Only flexed his fingers on your back and pulled you closer.

You realised there were three others in the camp. Fíli and Kíli as you'd guessed, but seeing the grey robe fluttering by had made you smile.

Gandalf.

It must have been he who opened whatever doorway it was to get you back through. Finally, you couldn't stand to lay there anymore. You had to get up and tend to urgent needs.

Thorin, however, was not about to let you go, and it took some tugging and pulling before you could slip away.

You walked away, found some bushes and did your business. Coming back, Thorin was sat up, searching around for you and only when he saw you did his posture relax.

His hair was a mess, and you watched as Fíli teased until Thorin gave in. His nephew plaited three new braids, each held by a silver bead. They used to be bronze you remembered and only two of them.

You thought you'd ask later, it wasn't important right now. A lot of things weren't important right now, like your feeling numb and disconnected.

You should be happy, and you kind of was happy, but you thought you'd be happier. You couldn't figure it out.

Breakfast was served, and it was the same awful grainy stuff from the quest. You ate it with relish.

Small talk filled the camp, and you didn't listen, you just weren't interested. This numbness had taken hold, and you were left feeling like you were watching them on a screen, not actually sat with them. It was weird, and you could only think it was where you were tired.

But you weren't, you didn't worry about all the walking you'd do today, nothing worried you, and that…worried you.

"You're quiet?"

Thorin turned to you, shuffling closer, offering his bowl of breakfast seeing yours was empty.

You shook your head, you couldn't talk, no, that wasn't it. You had nothing to say.

"Love, what's wrong?"

You stared at him. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his warm smile, his hair caught in the breeze rising off one shoulder. He was beautiful and alive and likely suffered so much. You wondered how much you could have helped had you been there.

And that's when it hit.

You pushed back the tidal wave of emotion, planted a smile on your lips. You looked at Fíli who was watching you both, asked how he was. Did the same to Kíli and Gandalf. Enquired about the others and Bilbo.

Asked about Erebor.

You got short sentences back, worried glances until finally a hand settled on your arm and it happened automatically, you flung off his touch and stood up, walking away.

Your name was called quietly, in that soft, tender, caring tone. It made you speed up, and soon you just ran. Ran away from him, tears blitzing down your face, your breathing harsh and catching.

You just ran until you couldn't anymore and fell to the grass, covered your face with your hands and sobbed.

He sat behind you, not sounding out of breath. "I'm sorry," he spoke.

You shook your head and bit down on your hand to hold your sobs in.

"Love, I wish…I wish I had found you sooner."

He was apologising for that weasel attacking you. Yes, it was horrifying, but…

You stopped the thought, you couldn't continue with it because then you'd have to face the crux of the problem.

"I'm not sorry for my punishment of him."

"It's fine," you choked out, wishing he'd leave you alone, then wishing he wouldn't.

"Would you like me to leave?"

Oh. Hell. No.

You were up on your feet staring down at him, "That's your answer to everything isn't it," you snapped.

His eyes widened, hurt glossing his gaze.

"I'm sorry," you spoke quickly, pushing everything down. This wasn't fair, he'd come for you, you should be glad of that.

"Can we go, please. Just, let's get back to Erebor."

He shook his head, "I think I would prefer we talk first."

"No!"

He stood slowly, looking down at you. "I fear that you have something on your mind, I think it best we discuss it."

"Well, I don't. So, let's get on our way, please."

He stepped forward and you stepped back, hands fisting. His brows rose in surprise at your battle stance.

"Tell me, are you sorry I brought you back?"

"No," you shook your head. "I've missed here."

"Aye, but perhaps, you did not miss me?"

You jabbed your eyes back to his, anger screwing up your features. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Please tell me I did not cut off the hand of your lover?"

His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at your first attack on him. You rushed him slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back.

"How dare you," you screamed in his face, before surging forward and tackling him again, shoving him back.

"You dare accuse me of taking another lover."

You swung your fist at his face, and he ducked back.

"How many did you have?" you screamed at him. "I bet you didn't lack for pretty little dwarf ladies in your bed."

"I have not—" you didn't give him time to finish. Your fist caught him in the shoulder, and your foot kicked him in the shin.

His breath rushed out, and he staggered back with a limp.

"You are clearly mad with grief," he bit the words out, favouring his injured leg. "Perhaps you should take some time. I will gladly wait—"

"Shove your nobleness up your dwarfish arse," you screamed, the words echoing around you.

"What is wrong with you?" he yelled back.

You snapped your mouth shut, you couldn't let the words out. Tears sprang to your eyes, pressure building in you.

"Tell me, or so help me I will leave you here."

Your face creased in agony at those words, "You're good at that, aren't you" he risked coming closer to hear you.

Bewilderment adorned his face, "I do not understand, what is it that I have done wrong."

The dam burst sobs falling out of you, shaking your entire body, mingling it with an unholy rage.

Fists flying you attacked him, driving him back as he put up his hands to defend, he wouldn't fight back, he'd never fight back against you. That only made you furious.

"I hate you," you screamed at him, his face shocked, hands dropping, you gave him a punch to the cheek.

"You left me," you screamed as you slapped his other cheek. "You left me, all of this is because you left me."

Your rage of the last eight months spilt over, and you flung yourself at him hard enough that he stumbled, you falling on top of him as he struck the ground, breath whooshing out.

You grabbed his hair near the roots, screaming into his face about your horrible life.

"I wanted to die," you yelled, "I wanted it so much and every day I woke up again, and it hurt so much. It hurt because you left me. That man," you shook him," that man attacked me because you left me behind."

You slapped his face, his shoulders and he let you. He lay there taking all your vitriol, and it just made you angrier.

Finally, you stared down at him, "You left me behind because your gold was more important than my life." You threw the accusation at him, wanting to see him hurt, and when you got what you wanted you couldn't take anymore.

You wanted to beat the shit out of him, but that would leave you alone, and you couldn't face that.

"You knew how much I loved you," your fingers were in his collar. They moved up to his throat, circled it as much as you could, and you wanted to squeeze, but instead you collapsed down on him and attacked his lips with yours.

He didn't respond at first, and you howled like a banshee. Teeth biting at him until finally his mouth opened and he was mashing your faces together.

It was like pouring petrol on a fire. You both went up in flames as your lust became a physical battle of dominance. He ripped at the shirt he'd put on you last night, you tore at his tunic.

When your breasts were exposed, he turned double quick, sprawling on top of you and inhaled a nipple, sucking violently, teeth scraping.

You screamed, arching your back and slammed a hand to the back of his head, keeping him there.

His hands pulled up your skirt, and you tried to reach his belt. Your knickers were ripped down your legs to your knees, and he was up pushing you over onto your knees.

You heard the jingle of his belt and warm skin brushed against yours.

He didn't use his fingers as he had once, checking how wet you were, he just slammed in. It stung a little, but you welcomed it and begged for more.

"Oh, don't worry little wild cat, you'll get all you can handle."

He pulled out and slammed back in, setting up a ferocious rhythm.

All you could do was plead for him to never stop.

When your hand went between your legs, he pulled it back, "No, you will not find your pleasure, until I say so."

He kept slamming in, grinding himself, going deeper and deeper, you could feel yourself bruising inside, yet you needed more of him.

"Does this feel like it?" he questioned, tugging your hair, exposing your throat.

"Answer me," he yanked harder arching you back.

"I don't understand," you howled.

He stopped, pulled you up to his chest, thrust his hand between your thighs and attacked your clit.

"Does this feel like I'm leaving you, ever again?"

You couldn't answer.

He was driving you higher, faster and you were helpless, trapped by his body.

"Do you think I wanted to leave you, that I didn't regret it when I couldn't find you again."

You climaxed hard, bucking and swaying.

His fingers carried on, taking you higher.

"You think I didn't regret it when they said you were dead. When I believed your body consumed by dragon fire.

Another climax and you screamed.

"You think, when I discovered you'd been sent home by that interfering witch of an elf, I didn't regret leaving you."

Another climax and your vision went white, you roared, your muscles inside cramping.

He pulled out, turned you over and sank back in, his kisses drying your tears.

"I've regretted it every day," he slid out, gently nudging back in,

You started crying again, quiet tears leaking down your temples into your hair.

"You are my wife," he grabbed that third mysterious braid, "I have worn this, every day, since I discovered you gone, so all would know my heart belongs to another."

You shook your head, you couldn't take anymore.

"Aye, I left, and I regretted it. I'm sorry, love."

"I'm sorry," you cried, shaking, and he kissed you sweetly.

"Love, you do not need to say that. Know that, when we go home, I will never leave you again."

You nodded, but couldn't stop your tears. He shushed you, soothed you, and coaxed another climax out of you before emptying himself inside you.

"I leave a part of me in you, love."

And that just made you cry again, he held you as you exorcised all those demons that had been bottled up inside for eight months.

* * *

Two dwarves and a wizard did a double-take when they saw you walking back hand in hand, with ripped clothing, scratches, bruises, and hair tousled into matching bird nests.

"Are you alright?" Fíli asked, eyeing you both, then looking out on the horizon in case you had pursuers.

"Aye, we're fine," Thorin remarked, slapping his nephew on the back, a mile wide grin splitting his face.

"When we get home, I'm marrying my wife." You'd never seen Thorin sporting a sappy grin until now.

You laughed at him. Oh, you were still a little weepy, but that was you. Emotional wreck. The opposite to your husband, he was steel through the middle, no emotions showing with him, well usually.

"We'll be camping early tonight," Thorin ordered.

"Well, I should imagine you're tired," Kíli commented, nudging you with his elbow.

You were about to nod when Thorin boomed out, "Nonsense, it is my ambition and desire that she be with child by the time we get home." He pointed at the three shocked faces, "So, you'll have to camp elsewhere."

Your mouth was wide open, firstly at being called 'She' and secondly because he'd just announced that you would be having rampant, and likely, very noisy sex all night.

You wanted to complain, but one look at his face and you couldn't. You knew you'd do your damnedest to get pregnant for this dwarf.

You'd do anything for him.

The same as he'd proved he'd do anything for you, even travel across time and space for you.


End file.
